Untitled Allegory (Part V)

HIS IDEAL (MORE)

His attention was snapped back as the doctor returned to the silent room (how long had he been gone?) and his morbid train of thought was interrupted. Almost immediately, upon the doctor’s re-entry, his hopes piqued, or, at least, he desperately tried to make himself believe that they did. Seconds earlier, his mind flickered back and forth between a lowering casket and white wreaths of flowers. While his fingernails diminished into a mash of white and broken skin and his mind wandered to images of a milky syringe, its hammer being slowly pulled back then thrust forward, his thoughts flicked and flashed to cards of condolence and phone-calls to forgotten family. He saw in his mind emptied drawers and a large, soft, but now empty bed. But with the turn of a silver handle, a bright glowing glint of metal against a full white pallet, this slate was imagined to be wiped clear. His hopes now hinged on a man in a white coat.

“Well, doctor?” He anticipated an answer as soon as the words leapt from his mouth. He wanted the answer immediately. His body even began to reach for it, which was made clear by a slight tremor and tiny beads of sweat on his forehead, upper-lip, and neck. He wanted, needed the assurance of the doctor’s decision, regardless of the direction. Either way, the decision was being made for him, and that he could live with. He could hardly imagine the burdensome task falling squarely on his shoulders. How could he make such a decision? No, the doctor would do all that. And he would nod and comply, if not hug the man and kiss his feet—no matter what he decided.

“We’ll go ahead with it,” the doctor replied. “Now.”

With these short, abrupt words, he looked at the doctor and breathed a large sigh of relief, pleased that a decision had been made, yet the finality of the moment, like all things in life, had failed to live up to the expectations his mind had created. Still, he imagined his fear and worry melting away. But all he could do was imagine this type of relief, as suddenly and unexpectedly, something within him again screamed that she was dying, that she was already dead, and that the doctor’s proposed solution might be no solution at all. He had tried to put these thoughts away, but he soon after thought that maybe if the doctor had concluded in the opposite direction, that she should NOT receive the shot, that that might not be enough either. When he looked at the center of the room, he saw a woman he feared might be beyond the reach of help. He couldn’t help but want to feel safe, though, as with the return of authority and the few words it offered, he now had a plan to follow. This man is a doctor, he thought, and my wife needs the help that he can provide. This type of security was what he needed and wanted. It reassured him and made him feel as if he were on the right path. The pleasures of security—his wife needed help and he and the doctor could give it to her, if she would only accept it. This is what he actually told himself.

And now, as he looked at her more deeply, he began to imagine the white solution entering her veins, forced past her skin and into her blood. He then imagined her veins squeezing and tightening, pulling down on the medicine and feeling it out. Would they pass it on or would they reject it? He was able to see inside her body, into her blood, thick and black, thicker and much more dark than he would have ever guessed, and saw the veins encountering the solution. He saw the veins, their rubber walls pushing it away, resisting, and denying help. The veins, her cells, indeed, everything within her, would counter this move they made for her. His vision shifted through her blue arteries traveling into her chest, into her neck and brain. What was he seeing? This wasn’t a healthy person. This was a nation invaded, its sovereignty being fought for but inching ever closer, instead, towards its very demise. He saw rebel forces pushing back the medicine that he saw as a saving grace. Her body didn’t see this same grace, but, instead, saw an outright attack which amounted to a death blow. His mind’s eye pulled out from her insides, then, withdrawing itself from the strange territory and back into the room where he saw her face centered amongst a sea of white. He saw in this face that, somehow, she would fight the solution, no matter what, fight the help that they fought to give her. Why is she fighting me? I’m trying to help her, aren’t I? Her face tightened as his shifted from pleading towards anger.